I'd never seen Wilcox this excited about anything before. He was so eager to see the diaries that he hadn't even bothered taking off his hat and coat. He shoved a pile of papers aside, and I placed the box right in the middle of his desk.        He folded the flaps back and gazed into the box like a father looking at his newborn child in the cradle; I thought for a second he was going to go kootchie, kootchie, koo; but thankfully he didn't. Instead, he took the notebooks out, stacked them neatly on his desk, and appeared to count them.        "Well, they're all there," he said.        "That's all he gave me," I said. "I checked 'em out at my house and, although I'm no handwriting expert, they look like the genuine article to me."        "I have a feeling you're right."        "They're incredibly detailed, take a look . . ."        "Later, later," he said. "Right now we'd better put them where they'll be safe. Tomorrow we'll get the ball rolling--authenticating and transcribing, all that. Let's take them to the vault."        "Whatever you want," I said, picking up the box and following Wilcox to the elevator. "Besides, I could really use some sleep, but . . . damn! I may have to check into The Peabody until I can talk to Danko Fleister--the CIA guy I told you about--and ask him what to do about Bruno."        As we rode the elevator to the basement, I couldn't put my finger on it, but something was bothering me--that is, something other than the 101 Strings' rendition of "Purple Haze" being piped in over the elevator's speaker.        We reached the basement, and I followed Wilcox around the corner to the huge metal door of the Globe's walk-in vault. Wilcox fiddled with the combination till there was a loud "click." At the same time the door clicked, something clicked in my mind: When Wilcox was counting the diaries a few minutes ago, how could he know that they were "all there"? Hell, I didn't even know how many diaries there would be.        "What's wrong?" Wilcox asked as he stood at the entrance of the vault. I looked blankly at him, trying desperately to think of a response, when a strange thing happened. I noticed a tiny spot over Jasper's left eyebrow, right where his fedora rested on his forehead. The spot seemed to grow until it suddenly dashed down the side of his face leaving a bright crimson trail--it was blood.        Jasper reached up and touched his head--and then looked at his bloodstained finger with no apparent emotion.        "Oh, this," he said calmly. "I had a little accident earlier tonight."        "Yeah, I guess you did, Herr Wilcox."        "What do you mean by that?" he said, slipping his right hand into his coat pocket.        "I mean I think you got that cut on your head at the corner of Holmes Road and Elvis Presley Boulevard. You were the one in the bushes 'delivering' the diaries. You're the German, aren't you, Jasper?"        The silence was deafening. Wilcox just stood there, burning a hole through me with his eyes. Rather than wait to see what his next move would be, I made a run for it. I dashed through the corriders of the Globe building until I came to the gray metal doors that led to the employee parking lot. As I made a mad dash for my car, I could hear Jasper running after me, yelling for me to stop. I threw open the door to my car, threw the box of diaries in, and hopped in, slamming the door just in time. As I drove away, I could see Wilcox getting in his car.        My used Chevette was no match for his BMW. In what must have been the shortest car chase on record, Wilcox caught up with me about two blocks from the Globe building. Making a sharp right turn, Wilcox forced me off the road and into a old wrought iron lamppost that lit the entrance to the bridge that I had been admiring from his office only minutes before.        The front end of my Chevette wrapped around the lamppost like it was hugging a long lost friend. The car came to an abrupt halt. I, unfortunately, didn't. My head snapped forward, striking the steering wheel and bouncing off the horn. Having your face slammed into an immovable object is undignified enough without having the exact moment of impact announced by a cartoon-like honk.        My head was still spinning when I looked up to see Wilcox outside my door, his revolver aimed directly at my throbbing nose.        Having a gun trained on me was beginning to get old hat, what with this being "Point a Pistol at Jeff" day, and all; but I must say that having your boss point a gun at you is a special kind of nightmare. In fact, I thought that surely I must be in the middle of a really bad dream; that next he was going to force me at gunpoint to take a final exam that I wasn't prepared for, without any clothes on, while my friends and family stood by pointing and laughing. Then, I'd wake up screaming, eat a bowl of Lucky Charms, and go back to work. But no such luck--I was here and he was there and no amount of pinching was going to make it all go away.        "Get out of the car, Jeff," Jasper barked. "And give me the diaries."        I tried my best to oblige, but having recently been on intimate terms with my dashboard, I seemed to move a bit like Gumby. This was only appropriate, I guess, since, with the bruise on my face and the bump on my head, I also looked like him.        I crawled out of the car and tossed Jasper the carton of diaries. For a split second, I thought about trying my wingtip maneuver, but Wilcox kept his distance, unlike poor Bruno who was probably still in my yard contemplating the crabgrass.        "So, what now, Jasper?" I said. "You gonna shoot me?"        "Oh, I'm going to shoot you, all right, Jeff. But not before I give my obligatory 'villain hesitates before killing hero so that he can explain his brilliant but diabolical plan' speech. Hey, I may be nuts, but I play by the rules of the genre.        "You see, Jeff, the Globe was in financial trouble, deep financial trouble. I had to come up with a way to keep it afloat. I couldn't let them take my newspaper away. You have to understand; newspaper work is my life; it's all I know. You know what they say: 'You get ink in your blood, you can't get it out; you get ink on your shirt, soak it overnight in 50 percent warm water, 50 percent vinegar, then tumble dry."'        It looked like Wilcox was losing it.        "But that's where fate stepped in--the Elvis Diaries. Remember two months ago, when I was in Dusseldorf for the International Newspaper Publishers Conference? It was then that I stumbled on the diaries--in a tiny flower shop around the corner from my hotel. I had just purchased some peonies, and the owner was in his office getting my change. I was looking around for a box and noticed a cardboard container under the counter. I opened the box, and when I saw the diaries--I nearly passed out. I asked the owner if he would sell them. He said 'nein,' but I insisted that I have the whole set. He clarified his refusal with a 'No way, Jose.'        "He was frightened. He explained how he had stumbled on the diaries back in 1980 while filling in for the regular gardener at Graceland. One day, while he was rotating the begonias, his shovel struck something hard. What he had hit was a metal box containing the diaries. Apparently, Elvis had buried them there. He stashed the diaries in his truck and smuggled them through the Graceland gates. He told me he never had the nerve to sell them for fear that he would get caught.        "I told him that I must have the diaries. That they could save my newspaper. The more he refused the more he began to remind me of Sluggo. In a fit of fury, I picked up a shovel and whacked him on the head. It was the only thing I could do. You understand that, don't you?"        Wilcox was red and trembling. But he managed to continue.        "When I got back to the hotel, I realized my predicament: I didn't know if the gardener had told anyone else that he had the diaries, and to run them, I would have to explain how I got them. I tried to think of a plan, but it would have to wait; I had to deliver my speech on ethics in journalism at the Publishers Conference. It wasn't until I got back to the hotel that I hatched this scheme."        The pieces of this puzzle were beginning to fall into place.        "I get it," I said. "You smuggled the diaries back into the U.S., and then made up this 'mysterious' German character to 'sell' us the diaries. That way we didn't really 'know' anything about where they came from. Cute, real cute. But why did you drag me into the picture?"        "Simple, Jeff. By letting you handle the transaction, I was further insulating myself from the diaries and their 'current' owner. If the sticky question of the murder of a certain florist from Dusseldorf came up, what would I know, since all I did was fill a suitcase with money? And you? Well, let's just say that you would be indisposed."        "So you planned to . . ."        "Kill you? All along. After the diaries were safely--and officially--in our hands, of course. All of our conversations would die with you."        "So that explains why you kept Hodges out of it."        "You were expendable," he said coldly.        "And let me guess. It was you who spread the rumors that I was on to the diaries. And I bet it was you that hit me on the head at the impersonators convention."        "I can hear the police now. 'Poor Jeff, the victim of some Elvis fan gone berserk.' They would have more than enough suspects without having to worry about me."        "But, one thing. When I found you, you were tied up. And what about your head injury?"        "Bruno's men. I didn't give them enough credit. But, ironically, you showed up and saved the day. Let's just say I owe you one," Jasper said, laughing a crazed laugh.        "You never forgave me for that 'Eight Faces of Earl' story, did you?"        "Don't take it personally, Jeff. I had to save the Globe. You don't know what humiliation is until you've had your paper clips repossessed."        "Well, let me tell you something, pal. I'm real sorry about your money problems, but didn't you ever consider making the Globe a success the old-fashioned way--by offering a better product? You know, 'Build a better mousetrap . . .'"        "'. . . And the world will beat a path to your door?' Oh, that's fine in theory, Jeff. And maybe at one time it was true. But today, you're up against conglomerates and chains--you build a better mousetrap, and Consolidated Mousetrap Industries will send a man named Guido to break your knees. No, today you have to play dirty. You have to bend honesty to fit your needs--like a Cross-Your-Heart bra."        "Wilcox, not only does your way of doing business sicken me, but that's the silliest analogy I've ever heard."        "I'm sorry you didn't like it," he growled, "because that's the last analogy you'll ever hear." Wilcox tightened his grip on the box of diaries with his left hand, and then raised the gun to shoulder level. All of a sudden a familiar voice rang out.        "Drop it, Wilcox! "        It was Danko Fleister, and Virgil was with him.        "How'd you guys find me?" I asked.        "Well," Virgil said, "I came back to your house to look for my car keys, and I saw Bruno on the ground. He was moanin' like a hedgehog in heat. I figured somethin' bad must be up, so I called Danko. We went to the Globe lookin' for you, and saw the smoke from your car."        "Just drop the gun, Wilcox," Danko shouted, "and everything will be okay."        A panicked look came over Jasper's face. He bolted for the bridge, holding the diaries in his left hand and a pistol in his right. Danko, Virgil, and I took off after him.        Halfway across, Wilcox stopped to catch his breath. He waved his revolver at us and shouted, "Don't try to stop me. Anyway, once I cross the border, the law can't touch me."        "Jasper," I yelled, "That's Arkansas. Not only can the law touch you, it can fondle you if it wants to, although somehow I think it'll settle for touching."        Realizing his predicament, Wilcox aimed his gun our way and pulled the trigger. I felt the bullet whiz by my left ear.        Before he could get off another shot, Fleister pumped three rounds into him.        The force of the bullets knocked Wilcox back against the bridge railing, his body moving in a macabre tap dance of death.        The box of diaries flipped out of his hands and over the railing. I lunged toward the side of the bridge and tried to grab the box, but it was too late. All I could do was watch as the pages of the diaries swirled into the frigid air and then melted into the darkness of the river like the first, fat snowflakes of winter hitting the warm hood of a jet black '57 Caddy.        The eerie silence was broken as an icy gust of wind whipped through the wire bridge supports, making a noise that sounded as if it might be the King himself, letting out a big belly laugh at the scene below--the guns, the cops, the money--oh, indeed, Elvis would have loved it all.        Wilcox lay in a heap on the ground. His hands clutched at his stomach, and the blood oozed between his fingers and onto his coat, creating a stain that wouldn't come out easily. He managed to get out one last word before losing consciousness: "Schwinn," he groaned. Virgil, Danko, and I stood in silence. Finally Danko spoke.        "Schwinn? " he said. "What the hell does he mean by 'Schwinn'? Not another enigmatic last word. What, does it run in his goddamn family?"        "Schwinn?" mumbled Virgil. "Maybe that was the name of his favorite bicycle he had as a child."        Suddenly a groan came from the body.        "He's still alive!" I shouted. "Somebody call an ambulance."        Virgil ran off to call for help. While we waited for the ambulance to arrive, Fleister slapped Wilcox around trying to get him to explain the "Schwinn" remark. Jasper came around enough to explain that it was just something he'd said 'cause he'd been shot.        "Hey," he said to Danko, "If somebody shot you in the stomach, you'd say 'Schwinn,' too."        A few minutes later, the ambulance pulled up. Right behind it was a car with Virgil and Ginger. She ran up and threw her arms around me. This had all the earmarks of a happy ending.        "I was so worried," she said. "When Virgil called, I thought you might be . . . I can't even say it."        We stood arm in arm and watched as the medics loaded Jasper onto the ambulance.        "Virgil told me what happened," Ginger said. "I still can't believe Jasper was behind all of this. He was such a loving, caring man."        Ginger was right. I remember a few years back, when Jasper asked his wife for a Rolex for Christmas. She misunderstood and bought him a Rolodex. So as not to hurt her feelings, he wrote the hours and minutes on the cards and wore it on his wrist. Whenever he wanted to find out what time it was, he had to look it up. That's the kind of guy he was.        "I guess the pressure to live up to his father's name finally got to him," I said. "A man can only take so much."        Virgil ambled up to the edge of the bridge. He took the gold TCB necklace from around his neck, paused a few seconds, and then hurled it over the side.        "I reckon that's enough of that," he said, breathing a deep sigh of relief.        "So, Virgil," I said. "You're giving up on the Elvis impersonator business, eh? You've realized that it's better to be yourself and not to pretend to be something you aren't."        "Heck no," he said, a gleam coming into his eye. "I've got this great idea for a new one-man show. Listen to this--'Arnold Schwarzenegger: A Man and His Music.' I gotta go now," he said, grabbing my hand. "Y'all be good." He walked off into the darkness.        "I'll tell you about Virgil," I said to Ginger. "He's going places. Those places may be marked with signs reading 'Pop. 301,' but he is going places."        Just then Danko walked up.        "Danko," I said. "Man, you saved my life."        "No problem, pal. That's what I'm here for. Now, I'll tell you what, you kids tie the knot, and I'll whip you up a wedding cake you won't soon forget."        "Great," I said, wondering to myself where I could rent a flak jacket with tails.        "By the way," Fleister said, "I just took a message for you on my car phone."        "For me? Who was it?" I asked.        "It was some guy named Earl Buskin. He told me to tell you that he'd just discovered a ninth personality, and this one likes Bartok, nude skydiving, and has come up with a few adjustments to Einstein's Theory of Relativity."        "Stop the presses! " I yelled. "I've got me a story to write! "